Push Ups

THE EXPERIMENT;

The synopsis; A lot of scantily clad women assembling in one place, a bit like a Benny Hill sketch but entirely within the bounds of taste and political correctness. It is a happy go lucky atmosphere, bells and whistles are heard, a few football rattles, aerosol air horns, a retro-tambourine and a few catchy chants, not so much out of protest or militancy but with an excited expectancy or equivalent dread of something that could happen but it is unanimously hoped for that it will not. It was not a dream but the inaugral meeting of the movement known as Boobquake.

The Theory; Setting aside any religious, ethnic or political grounds or reasons the Boobquake initiative was devised as a populist scientific experiment. The founder and organiser, a seismologist from an American University had taken it upon herself and womenkind at large to investigate a much publicised viewpoint of a prominent Cleric that the reason for all the turmoil of earthquakes in the world was a direct consequence of, to put it bluntly, what he defined as loose women or more tactfully, loose or skimpy clothes worn by the same. In some cultures and faiths this remains certainly a strong moral standpoint. In the US educational system and in that particular seismology department such a verbal affront was considered to be worthy of a stand-off.

The Practice;  There are, on any one day or within any suitable 24 hour monitoring period at least 100 earth tremors around the globe. The convening of the colourful and noisy get together was carefully orchestrated. Participants dressed down with all brands of underwear, lingerie and accessories to the fore.The seismic sensors were co-ordinated with the duration of the event. Independent adjudicators and Officials oversaw, perhaps with a downward gaze in the interest of modesty, the whole thing. A good time was had by all.

The Outcome; Considerable interest was generated by the exercise. Facebook played a prominent part in advertising and endorsing Boobquake. There was a media frenzy, but I cannot recollect having seen any live footage or reportage on the actual day in April 2011. The Cleric, the catalyst for the movement, and his supporters claimed that a tremor had hit Taiwan at the time of the experiment but this appears to have been disproved with the specific earthquake having taking place in the morning and therefore prior. Womens groups and activists were completely split in their opinions and so Boobquake was either a resounding success or an own goal.

The Conclusion;  Such is science.

6/10 , Could do with a bit more substance and analysis,

Lush

Temple Lushington Moore is not a great name. It is a fantastic name.

If you are seeking verification of its authenticity where should you be looking?

Try an Ordnance Survey sheet for a National Park because it sounds like it should be written against some wild, open and uninhabited space. It could also be mistaken for the name of an ancient monument. It may be worth an each way bet if found amongst the runners and riders at Kempton or Newmarket racecourses. Utterance of the name in a much shortened form may come from a baseball hat wearing street-wise teenager -"Lush".

The name itself could spark a long debate over the well worn theme of nature versus nurture. Obviously doting parents at the Christening Font will have considered long and hard a suitable name for their child. It may have consist of longstanding family names handed down respectfully or be a hyphenated amalgamation of two great families. Whatever the genetic,socio-economic or just fashionable origins it is plain to see that someone with such a grand name must have been destined to acheive great things and be remembered for such. In that way a name may be incidental to success but in this particular case it will have assisted greatly.

The man and his three barelled name was born in 1856 of Irish descent and through marriage settled in, and carried out most of work as an Architect in East Yorkshire. His best known commissions can be spotted by a Gothic Revivalist Style in many ecclesiatical buildings including Parish Churches and Rectory's.

I first came across his work during a Survey of a grand and striking old house in one of the rural villages in the Holderness area towards the North Sea Coast. Set back from the main through road it was immediately evident that this was not a standard house by its appearance, scale and construction. Built in 1892 in a Wrenaissance Style and at a cost of £2720 ( by todays money in excess of £166,000) it had served as the Rectory until economics and maintenance costs forced it out of the Diocese property budget.

It had been in private ownership for some years but had not been diluted or compromised by any works recommended by Readers Digest and the long driveway approach will certainly have deterred salespersons from cladding, double glazing and loft conversion companies. The brickwork was perfect, close bonded headers but done in the expensive way by being individually cut so as to create the illusion of a solid wall but upon detailed investigation actually encorporating a narrow cavity onto the inner leaf. For the late Victorian period it was as technologically advanced as the Space Shuttle to a horse and cart.

Such resistance to dampness and seasonal coldness had been paramount to maintaining its condition in what could be an exposed location with not much in the way of a windbreak between the coast and The Ural mountains of western Russia. The owners, reluctantly selling up, proudly informed me of the pedigree of the house and so began my interest  in the works of Temple Lushington Moore. I was not alone. The owners continued to tell me of the phenomena, regularly at weekends and sometimes during the week when there would be someone loitering at the five bar gate on the driveway, notebook and 35mm camera in hand. After some reticence, before realising that the house was inhabited, but then with confident strides the doorbell would be rung followed by a request to ,please, take a few snaps of the outside for their collection. The devotees of Temple Lushington Moore would travel from all over the UK and Europe to pay homage to his portfolio.

Within a few years my work had taken me to other wonderful residences and Churches through the East Riding by the man and I was never disappointed by the experience and indeed often fascinated and captivated by fine detail in design and construction that ensured the properties , in particular the former Rectory's, continued to function and excel in providing for the lifestyle demands of modern living. 

Craftsmen and artists, as they could rightly be addressed thrived on the inspirational and classic visions of Temple Lushington Moore.Their skills were certainly required in the refurbishments and renovations of 45 churches and all due attention required to stained glass, masonry and carved wood features. Wealthy patrons and sponsors financed the building of 3 brand new churches in the late Victorian period. Notable work can be seen amongst the Sledmere Estate and at The Treasurers House, York.

In his later years there were some fallings out with those who had championed his style and panache. Competing firms of  Architects working to commissions more dictated by austerity conditions prevailed. The  age of Victorian Ecclesiastical grandeur and wealth was definitely coming to an end. Temple Lushington Moore died in 1920.

He left, behind the name, a great legacy.

A bit Gormless

I knew someone, now sadly dead, who spent a whole summer travelling by train through the English countryside for the sole purpose of having his picture taken outside of every football league ground. This combined the two loves of his life in train spotting and footie, and started his addiction on real ale and unhealthy steak pies which may have contributed to his demise- although it was a car crash that did it.

This, if you knew his character, was certainly an impulsive and downright reckless endeavour. He usually made John Major look exciting.  It  took him from the farthest north in Newcastle, although he did go to Berwick Rangers which is on the English side of the border but who play in the Scottish League, to the most eastern in Norwich,and the dual westernmost and southern ground in Plymouth and many points in between.

Of course the whole trip was out of season so he did not get to see a single game, not even an impromptu kick about in the players car park if his photographic session happened to coincide with the team's reluctant return for pre-season training.

He dined out on the experience for many years after although we often had to stifle a yawn or rapidly claim a poorly tummy and vacate the room. The Eulogy at his very well attended funeral was from his best friend who had accompanied him and actually revealed more about the trip than we had known about.  It was very touching and we were sad to bade him farewell. It had been quite an endeavour in logistical and financial terms and one that may not ever be attempted subsequently for just such reasons.

Knowing the man, the meticulous planning of a methodical mind will have ensured that no stretch of railway line was travelled more than once and no railway station platform, apart from the main transport hubs , alighted on more than could be avoided.

As a family the nearest we have got to a collective obsession has been the ticking off, in our self made and frankly imagined Anthony Gormley spotters book, places in the UK where we have seen some of his sculptures and installations.

Of course The Angel of the North needs no introduction. If travelling with Durham behind you on the A1 this spectacular red oxide tarnished structure comes majestically into view just above and to the right of a few blocks of flats in the Gateshead suburb of Low Fell itself on the southern edge of the large Newcastle sprawl.

Travelling south by car , however the opportunity to view the Angel seems a lot shorter and my wife has never really forgiven me for not having enough time to wake her from a car nap before it disappeared out of view as we returned from a holiday in Scotland a couple of years ago. When the children were younger we found our way off the motorway to a lay-by at the feet of the aircraft wing span and climbed the short, steep incline to get a proper sense of scale in that very open and rolling landscape.

I had not personally heard of Anthony Gormley before the publicity for the AOTN which was erected in 1998. The interest only really began with a clearance sale at our local Sainsbury Homebase. Amongst the power drills, torches and shop soiled goods was a small pyramid of unmarked cardboard tubes an after rooting about amongst them I was pleasantly surprised to find  each contained a satin brushed finished stainless steel coat peg and a pre-drilled hole for a bolt mount (missing from all the packaging) . I liked the simple and functional look of the pegs and at only £4 each ( reduced from well into double figures ) two of the bargains soon found their way into my basket to the detriment of what I had actually come in  to buy which I quickly pushed to the back of the nearest display shelf. The flush mechanism on the bathroom toilet would have to drip leak for a few more days. No big shakes.

It was only upon showing the purchases to my wife that she pointed out the etched signature of Anthony Gormley. It was apparently part of a celebratory and limited edition release of the designed and endorsed work commissioned by the DIY store. I later returned to the shop but all of the stacked stock of pegs had been sold. I have not to this day seen or heard of their existence even with the world market place that is E-Bay.

Our very own Gormleys, a bit more manageable than the Angel of the North ,tied in nicely with my wife's artist friend Cynthia's tiny terracotta figure which had been presented and held pride of place on the mantelpiece in our back sitting room. Cynthia had based her figure on a large outdoor and later gallery installation of 35,000 little figures by the same man. I never got to weave my hamfisted DIY skills on the coat pegs as they were sent to Cynthia as a much appreciated gift.

After that we kept an eye out for any Gormley stuff and over the subsequent years any trips away on holiday attempted to take in at least one of his pieces of work.

In the Millenium year we got to see Quantum Cloud just offshore in the Thames at the Dome. It you stood on one leg and squinted and given the right light it was possible to make out a humanoid shape amongst the geometric framework of tightly grouped welded metal rods.  

The Sound II is a solitary standing metal figure in the crypt at Winchester Cathedral and on the fairly regular flooding of the chamber the image assumes an actual reflective state. This was a brief visit on our way to a beach holiday in Cornwall. The undercroft of the Cathedral was bone dry at the time which boded well for our week at the seaside.

Next on the wish list, and still to be seen is the Crosby Beach permanent installation of Another Place although the striking and erect bronze cast figures have caused much controversy being seen, for example, as a threat to sailing boats and the public at large. As for the simplified penises there have been calls for modesty and less pornographic detail but you do get people like that opposed to any revolutionary and poignant attempts at art and culture.

Well, on reflection our I-Spy book of Gormleys remains quite empty but it has been a fun and very stimulating quest so far. We will keep going come rain or shine, such are the vaguaries of the British climate and because, lets face it we have nothing to hang up our cagoules on anyway.

Bernie The Tramp

It was a saturday afternoon in late Spring, although the actual year escapes me.

As usual the interior of the car was becoming quite insanitary. Soft drinks cans, crisp packets, sweet wrappers and fish and chip trays and wrappers threatened an outbreak of the dreaded lurgy. On more than one occasion in the past couple of weeks a combination of the aforementioned packagings had , with forward motion, become nestled under my brake pedal with dramatic and panic inducing effect.

It was time for a good clearance and clean of my mobile office. With loose items extracted it was a case of working through with the carpet and upholstery nozzle on the vacuum. The rat-atat-tat of small fragments of gravel was regular and monotonous, only broken by the more hearty warble of a low denomination coin finding its way into the transparent dust collection chamber amongst the spiders.

I found the physical effort of tackling the niches, nooks and crannies inside the vehicle quite tiring, almost like an all body work out. I should have worn a longer tailed shirt as the cool breeze whipped around my exposed kidneys and lower back causing me to shiver uncontrollably. As I stood up straight and stretched I was conscious of a dark, shadowy figure standing by the driveway gates and watching me.

My fatal error was to make eye contact. This was seen as a green light to start up a conversation by the stranger. In his left hand he held out to me a scruffy and very used sheaf of papers, the page edges yellow and curled over. It was not evident to me what it was . "Would you like to buy a Lifeboats Magazine?" were the first words spoken by the visitor, now very much intruding into what I would consider my private space. I did not think that he was an official, authorised vendor of that charitable organisation and he offered no identification to contradict my suspicions. I think that I, out of politeness, took the document. Another fatal error on my part.

"Have you got anything to eat?" came next. On closer scrutiny he was quite distinguished a character. Trimmed stubble beard, white like a sea-captain but incongrously wearing sunglasses. He was clad top to toe in a trenchcoat and baggy suit trousers with smart but quite worn in the soul shoes. It was not an appearance to scare or intimidate so I waved him to follow me into the house. He travelled light with only a plastic carrier bag in his right hand.

I offered a bowl of something. He wanted soup, bread and "did we have a cheese sandwich handy?". My wife disappeared into the kitchen, marshalling the children with her out of a natural maternal instinct to protect her young from an intrusion, and on a saturday afternoon as well. He made himself quite at home very quickly. The initial humility at the gate gave way to quite a brash and self confident attitude.

A long and complex life story followed from a bad start in life to a tragedy that took his wife and child and in recent years a wandering existence relying on a network of acquaintances and , I paraphrase, the gullible public at large. I had no intention of trying to verify the sad facts but doubted whether they would be researchable anyway.

The food arrived. The cheese sandwich was rejected on the grounds of "no pickle", the soup reluctantly accepted although Cream of Tomato was "not his favourite", and the bread was "not buttered enough". He was a discerning and, frankly, a picky customer. My wife supplemented the light meal with a few tins and packets of food that he could take with him when or, more likely to my mind, if he actually left at all.

His language and mannerisms were now, having been fed, quite expansive and not a little rude and non-politically correct. We, as a family were now firmly under his spell. He was holding court but in what we had always regarded as our own castle.

He looked at me and determined that we were roughly of the same physique and build. I was not sure what was coming next- was he planning to metamorphose into me or undertake some grisly social experiment a bit like the Prince and The Pauper or worse? It was in fact a clumsy introduction to the subject of "did I have any spare items of clothing that he could have?". This request was another opportunity for my wife to disappear and again with the children in tow. I regretted now not having a secure panic room in the house. She returned with jumpers, shirts, a cagoule, a sleeping bag and a sports holdall. I expected our visitor to try them on and strut about as though in a gents outfitters. He felt that they would do fine. It was not really an actual thank you but I was beyond caring by now. I fidgeted about trying to hint heavily that I had saturday things to do but he was quite comfortable and perhaps not far off having an afternoon nap on our settee.

After a couple of hours, but what seemed like a fortnight, he announced that he had places to go, people to see, things to do. We tried not to show our collective relief. Unfortunately, the places, people and things were across the river, a few miles away. "You can drop me off at the bridge" was an order rather than an enquiry. My own thoughts were quite uncharitably "I can drop you off the bridge" more like. On the way in the car, not quite fully cleaned through, he sat awkwardly amidst his new possessions with the holdall on his lap fair bulging with the trophies of the afternoon luncheon and audience. There was an appeal for me to actually drive him over the bridge but I gracefully declined on the grounds of not having means of payment for the toll charge. This was a truth as I had cleaned out the car ashtray of coins only that very day. He stepped out in the layby just by the pedestrian walkway for the bridge and made off for the south bank of the river.

I sat bemused for a few minutes as though in shock at what had taken place. When I pulled into my driveway I waved blankly and vaguely at my neighbour who was attending to his bedding plants. He grinned at me and said with some glee "So it was your turn to meet Bernie The Tramp then".

As relative newcomers to the street this had been some sort of initiation process watched avidly from behind curtains and hedges. We had evidently graduated with honours in that our devious neighbours had escaped what was clearly a regular hunting ground for the man. From that day the escapades of Bernie The Tramp seemed to dominate the local press and media. I think it had always been the case but we just noticed it more now.  He was a one man Asbo magnet and after a bit of a drink he became a bit of a nuisance and not without some conveying of intimidation to those in his path.

The newspaper articles would describe him as being, amongst many other things, quite well dressed in which I illogically took some reflected pride

Born Identity

I was born in 1963. Thank goodness.

According to the childrens book of "Helping at Home" brought out in 1961 any child capable of standing up, of reasonable mobility, co-ordination and upper body strength was destined for domestic servitude at the beck and call of their Mummy and Daddy. I have seen and carefully studied the book after having come across it stashed away as though intentionally hidden from subsequent generations out of shame and fear of retribution. By my calculation those children most exposed to the inhumanities described in great detail and accurate English grammar will now be in the age range of 59 to 63. If you know of any survivors of his period please approach them and give them a warm hug and some words of genuine encouragement and support for they are a forgotten and downtrodden generation.

You will recognise them easily in the street. Smartly dressed, well groomed and with impeccable manners and politeness. Look deep into their eyes however and there will an empty void where, otherwise, the fond memories of a proper childhood would twinkle through.

The 1961 servitude apparently began very early in the day. The little boy and girl are already washed and dressed in shorts, cardigan, shirt and elasticated tie and a bight yellow knee length dress with white bobby socks respectively. Their Mummy is in a classic little black number and pearls, immaculately made up even though it is dark outside. " We are helping to lay the table" is the footnote for this scene. It does not state or imply that a hearty and nourishing breakfast was had. A turn of the page shows the children now in the kitchen, well at least it looks like a kitchen comprising an enamel sink unit, single cupboard and a freestanding dresser in the alcove. "We are helping to wash up". Tidy hands that do dishes look red raw.

Upstairs  next on the list. "We help Mummy to make the bed", an antiquated and unnecessarily labour intensive arrangement of multiple layers of sheets and a thick eiderdown, lumpy with poor distribution of feathers. I now appreciate how liberating the arrival of the continental quilt must have been some years later.
Physical graft is a major theme of the book. "We help Mummy to dust" and "polish" follow on rapidly with no intervals for orange squash. It is then back to the kitchen "We help Mummy to do some cooking". Presumably this marks the entrance of Daddy who has been very noiceable by his absence so far with expectations of his cooked start to the day. It is now evidently dawn and daylight has arrived. "We help Mummy to hang out the washing". Tasks are very much arranged on a sex and gender hierarchy in this typical household.

I have some sympathy for the Mummy at this stage. Even more so as the two children then "help to feed the animals". These appear to be simple domesticated rabbits but as a source of fresh meat or husbandry training exercise is not specific. Ancillary chores include helping  "to sweep the floor". Perhaps Daddy has actually been at work, killing and skinning the rabbits prior to hanging them up to cure.

Into the garden for more hard work. "We help to pick some flowers" and in the interests of sustainability "We help to plant some bulbs". By now the childrens clothes, hands and faces are dirty and sweat streaked but in true propaganda style their demeanour is bright, sparkling and smiley happy. Inside however they are crying.

Surprisingly there is a full public display of the modern day slavery as Mummy, still a Chanel model, takes the children to the town. Daddy comes along in a gaberdine mac, hat, chequed golfing trousers and a bad fashion choice of brown brogues. The images in the book do not show any more of this scene.

Back at home there is a flurry of jobs. "We help to clean the shoes", ".......carry the logs", ".....pick the apples" and "dig potatoes". This illustrates the culture instilled after many years of post war austerity measures. The look on the faces of the boy and girl is one of uniform determination to harvest a good crop and avoid punishment or perhaps being sold to another Mummy and Daddy gangmaster.

Daddy is a stickler for social status and the children next "help to clean the car". He anticipates the comments and admiration from his peers in the office car park for his gleaming saloon car.

At this point in the book there are strong hints that the children are split up on a task basis. The little girl disappears for her indoctrination in the skill sets of womenfolk whilst the boy bonds with his Daddy as he "helps to mend the fence", a sizeable enclosure around the residential compound, "...paint the gate", "....rake the leaves" and  ".......tidy the shed". The reward for the young lad is a bonfire but he stands downwind of the smoke and his eyes become red and watery.

The final page in the book of "Helping at Home" is an attempt at normality. The boy and girl sit on a bus in a change of clothes as they head off for school. It has already been a very, very long day.

As the morning sunlight streams into the top deck front seats their worldweary faces appear to be calm and serene. They are in fact in a deep, exhausted sleep and in their dreams they are at play and happy as all children should rightly be.

Russian Roulette for the under 12's.

We will always be children in the eyes and precious memories of our parents.


In attics, eaves storage cupboards, on tops of wardrobes and in boxes in the garage at the old family home will be treasured possessions from our childhoods even though at dire risk of 1) Being ravaged by our own offspring during a visit to their grandparents 2) Sold at a Car Boot Sale 3) Put in a Charity collection bag or 4) Taken to the tip to make space for a Nordic Ski machine or hot tub.


Parents may be tactful in their heavy hints that your own house must have some room for you  to take the ephemera of your younger years.  I got that very call some years ago and as a consequence I have not been able to access my shed because of the great number of bicycles,bits of bicycle and spare bike wheels which were relocated on request. Stumbling across familiar things from our youngest formative years  is both reminiscent and poignant in that a certain smell, touch or visual image immediately returns you to a far off point in time before the exposure to the stresses and mundanity of an adult life drag out any spirit of innocence and excitement.


Such was my time travelling experience in finding a long lost Ladybird Book whilst rooting around at the old house.


The Ladybird publications were keenly purchased because of the great range of subjects and topics they covered and the fact that they were within pocket money range, about two old shillings and sixpence or with the introduction of decimalisation the equivalent twelve and a half new pence. The vast Ladybird library was heavily directed towards reading and literacy but in a good way with large type print on one side of the page and a very real life artwork on the other. The hardback covers were equally enticing to eager minds and the book size was just compatible with most pockets of home made clothes or hand-me-downs. There was warmth and comfort in the sight of a small collection of these books on the bedside table or playroom bookshelf. At the back of an attic storeroom shelf, behind my Sun Newspaper Football Annual 1973 and my Fathers 1946 Christmas present entitled 'The boys book of modern scientific wonders and inventions' I spied a book which had provided many, many hours of activities, crafting and haphazard, nigh downright perilous exposure to, and use of scissors, razor blades and toxic or nauseous adhesives and substances. It is, on reflection, close to a miracle that I survived potential self mutilation, laceration, addiction and chemically catalysed brain damage before the age of ten.


The small book was a 1966 print by Ladybird of " Toys and Games to make". Within the 20 pages were projects to capture the imagination, spark an interest which could lead well into senior years and an unhealthy reliance on raw materials that could only really be sourced from the heaviest of cigarette smokers and most enthusiastic of alcoholics. Just about every thing to be made required  matchboxes, live matches and wine bottle corks as integral parts. The diet in my childhood must also have been very different as other assembly tasks in the book presumed that there was unfettered access to empty tropical date boxes, the type with a rough wood base and metal stapled card surround. Other materials were very much of that period including wooden cotton reels, left over soap, glycerine, bits of candles and chocolate boxes.


The list of tools by which to achieve the desired target toy or game were again an indication of a very relaxed health and safety culture. Aimed at ages up to 12 there were no disclaimers or recommendations for parental supervision or assistance in the more challenging aspects calling for a hammer, nails, knitting needle with a point at each end, sharp stick, bradawl, skewer, drawing pins, foil, wire, half a clothes peg and glycerine. Of course, nothing could be attempted without the most common carried possession of the under 12's- a very sharp penknife. I have not heard of any litigation against Labybird Books for injury or worse arising from the faithful adherence to the instructions contained therein by scarred individuals or their distraught parents. Nowadays, any amassing of the required materials and equipment would no doubt arouse the interest of the anti- terrorism forces in our midst.


The first collection of things to make was my favourite. A full compliment of miniature furniture for a dolls house. Dresser, sideboard, chair, TV and a bed fashioned from cloth upholstered matchboxes with live matchsticks,tip down to emulate castors on legs. Confidence in the working with such basic materials soon caused the pages in the book to be turned . A box guitar with a one string effect elastic band caused much antagonism in the house. Games to be made ranged from a strong bubble liquid and wire blower to a magnetic fishing game, boomerang to a balancing cork man on the lid of a pop bottle, tin can revolving crane to a paddle steamer, yes an elastic powered matchbox. Many wooden cotton reels were taken from our Mothers sewing basket, whether empty of thread or not. These formed the basis for a knitting machine, working tractor and a very elaborate and structurally intricate dancing doll, a bit like those figures crafted out of tied together terracotta flowerpots. Paper based toys and games were on the theme of magic tricks with a disappearing bird in a cage, a kaleidescope and a wallet which both amazed and mesmerised grandparents like a cheap side show attraction with equal depletion of their hard earned savings paper money in particular.


At the time the toys and games were items of great pride and young satisfaction. They were high in recreational and educational value but sadly not sturdy enough to survive imaginative or boisterous play. The miniature furniture fared worse  by not being very retardant to the ravages of a scaled down conflagration from the unpredictable, shocking but ultimately entertaining spontaneous combustion of their unstable, thin and spindly phosphorous tipped matchstick legs.

Nice work if you can get it

From time to time my company are invited to attend at School Careers Evenings and we are more than happy to do so. This usually involves our preparation of a short powerpoint presentation about the Surveying Profession, a collection of enlarged photographs of some of the more interesting properties we have looked at in recent years, some frightening photographs of bad workmanship, rampant fungus or hazardous arrangements that defy all the laws of construction, physics and gravity and a few leaflets hurriedly obtained from our Professional Institution  outlining the broad range of actual work under the term of Surveying.

The typical event takes about 2 to 3 hours in the main school assembly hall or in a series of classrooms. We have a reasonable level of interest in what we have to offer although it is mainly the prompting and kettling action of parents that produces a vaguely interested child in front of us.

If I get a chance to trawl around the exhibitors I can clearly see what jobs are the current favourites amongst the 14 to 18 year old pupils attending. Top spot is always the legal profession followed by journalism, travel agency, sports therapy, accountancy , police force and armed services.

This will certainly be in sharp contrast to the league table of jobs, say at the equivalent school careers event of some 50 years ago where I would expect the top three positions to be taken up by Civil Servants, Teachers and Medical, with the armed forces and law still in the frame as a choice for a lifetime of employment. Go back some 80 years ago and I would expect the hierarchy to consist of Civil Servant either domestic or Commonwealth, Transport such as the Railways or Merchant Navy, Military, Engineering, Agriculture, Architecture and Law.

By way of actual research I have sourced the following list of forms of employment for Kingston Upon Hull from 1892. These come from a trade directory covering the main central city area which was at that time very densely populated with back to back terraces, numerous short off road terraces with a central footpath approach, larger town houses and the semi detached and detached villas of the better off. Some of the jobs are self explanatory but I have had to look up some of the terms which have been lost from public understanding over the ensuing century but were commonplace in the late Victorian period. The majority of the jobs are listed against male names although some will have been open to both men and women.

Sausage and skin dresser                            Bristle merchant                                 Letter carrier

Brick burner                                                 Rag merchant                                     Currier

Bird dealer                                                   Inventor & Patentee                           Seed crusher

Water Bailiff                                                Mast Maker                                       Wharfinger

Sail maker                                                    Lead grinder                                       Dry salter

Waterman                                                    Cooper                                                Cow keeper

Stamper G.P.O                                              Canvasser N.E.R                                Rullyman

Waggonette Proprietor                                 Stevedore                                          Tinner

Brass finisher                                                 Smack owner                                    Soot merchant

Lighterman                                                    Wardrobe dealer                              Oil Press Wrapper
                                                                                                                                            Maker

Tar distiller                                                     Corn Factor                                       Rate collector

Many of the jobs are specific to the maritime status of Hull as a trade and fishing port but are a very interesting insight into the life and times of our relatively near ancestors. The majority of the jobs have just died out although some do survive today in some guise or under a more technical description. 
A Rullyman was someone who worked the horse drawn carts onto which ships were unloaded. A job done for by containerisation of cargo. 
The job of a Soot Merchant has been described as collecting the waste from residences and then selling it to agriculture for spreading on the land being particularly good for forcing root vegetables. This job title also applied to the collection of night waste to be mixed into a very sticky mess.
A brick burner, usually a female occupation, had responsibility for maintaining the brick-firing kilns in the days when the excavation of clay and then manufacture of bricks was a very local operation. My late father in law remembers, when he was a child, the almost apocalyptic sight of the glow of brick kilns amongst the clay pits off Marfleet Lane in East Hull.

Some of the occupations were of the wealthier in the society of the time, the high flyers could be amongst the Master Mariners, Smack Owners, Wharfingers, Waggonette Proprietors and there was, of course,  no stopping those in the heady position of keeping their own cow.

(Smallprint.- yeah, yeah, another recycled effort from last year but one that needs another airing if ony to give an opportunity to speak loudly the lovely words in the job descriptions - very therapeutic) 

Best Intentions

It came, I remember vividly, in the small, tight blue roll of a string tied bag.

Some forty plus years later the same bag is just about recognisably blue but heavily faded, discoloured and grass-stained from as many summers. It was the tent. A Boy’s own first and starter tent but only in that four letter word did it have any actual resemblance to a real tent. It failed on so many criteria.

 It was made of light and almost transparent cotton and not heavy duty canvas. As a consequence it had no waterproof qualities whatsoever. The two poles were thin and flimsy, about the girth of a babies finger, in two sections and with the connector being possibly part of an elvish friendship ring. The poles emerged through the front and rear apex of the tent from small holes with only fancy stitching to hold them in place against a strong wind, for example, if anyone opened a door. There was no connection between the poles, no stout ridge, so the whole structural integrity, as much as it was, relied on the tension of the two guy-ropes. These simply looped, at the centre, over the protruding pole end and could extricate themselves through any momentary lessening of the tension, usually if someone coughed or sneezed.

Setting up the tent singlehandedly was a challenge. The cloth rectangle was laid out on one of its sides. The far end pole was assembled like sticking together two matchsticks with a tin foil wrap. Then, the first excitement of crawling into the semi transparent enclosure like putting salad into a pitta bread. I usually, and illogically held my breath for that part. If it was done easily that was fine. Any small problems delaying the operation and I would emerge very red faced and gasping for air. The latter was usually the case. Then the front pole. This was very straightforward as I just had to pull back the sub-triangle door panel and insert the pole, just like an upside down cricket stump. The guy rope was attached to the rear pole. Trying to maintain equal tension on two lengths of little more than kite string was difficult. I was trying to walk in one direction to find a spot to push in the metal skewer but with the other arm stretched out along the tangent where the other skewer would go. It was evidently, quite a plausible imitation of Dr Magnus Pike in full flow.

The metal skewers were not the original fittings for the tent. Those supplied when the bag was its bluest colour were purpose made and stout tent pegs. True and straight with a nicely turned and angled top. Most importantly the pegs had a pointed end for easy driving into the ground, even by a small child without his Dad’s mallet, best hammer or any other tool with a handle and a head. The originals were long gone. Lost in the garden. Misplaced in the bottom of the toy cupboard or thrown into the far reaches of the compost heap if they dared to catch, snag and damage the rotating blade of the fierce petrol driven lawn mower as it dragged my Father back and forth across the lawn on a weekend. The usual spikes to secure the guy ropes were meat skewers. Under slight pressure into even light soil they buckled and folded. They were useless.

As a back up plan I could tie the ropes to stationary objects such as a garden bench or abandoned toys, the heavy red metal pedal car being pretty solid. With one of the pegs just about stable I could scuttle across to the other. I was a bit of a stickler for a correct angle for the guy rope. It had to be forty five degrees from the pole, creating a ninety degree arc altogether. If I misjudged the angle or tension the whole far end of the tent would, at best, distort and sag or at worst just collapse. If it held up I would gingerly step back so as not to create any air turbulence. The tent was half up. It looked at that stage like a camel kneeling down on its forelegs with bum in the air. I would giggle at this observation, again. The front pole, again a bit easier and less of a performance. The tent was fully up. I worked round the pegs to make minor adjustments to the ropes using the sliding runners to even up the pitch and roll of the tent. If done correctly and not overstretched there was the advantage that the door flaps would meet in the middle and could be tied together to keep invaders and marauders, usually disguised as my younger siblings, at bay.

The tent then had to be filled with my equipment. Travel rug as a groundsheet, box of plastic soldiers, toy gun, cushion stolen from the living room and food supplies. Of course, the tent was suitable for both outdoor and indoor use. Thinking back I would say that the tent had actually been pitched more often in the dining room than the garden.

I did sleep out sometimes in the tent but in the absence of any protection against rain, swirly winds or even insects and snails this could only be done on the warmest ,driest and pest free night in any one year. The base of the tent sides did have two small tie loops per side to prevent flapping or the appearance of a sibling’s head covered in chocolate or worse. Usually I did not have enough pegs to use the loops.

In a stiff, strong wind the tent took on a life of its own and would be rapidly evacuated and then later retrieved from its eventual resting place up the end of the garden. Given its obvious limitations you would think that the tent would soon lose its appeal to a small lad.

I forgot to mention its most endearing and lasting feature. The tent was a very bright colour. The end panels were lurid orange. The main sides portrayed fantastical scenes of cowboy life. A cattle drive, camp fire, mounted ranch hands, mountains and plains. On a bright day, and lying out surrounded by my equipment it was easy for the whole tent to come alive with the Wild West and it was a very real and brilliant experience.

I spent many hours under the cotton triangle of that tent and even now, the smell and texture of the somewhat faded cloth evokes great and poignant memories. Of course, now that I am fully grown my attempts to lie down in the tent are quite comical. It still emerges on a regular basis every summer and is pitched awaiting occupation. My own children, niece and nephews have moved onto other activities and pursuits. I, however, have not . Stooping down and crawling in can give some worrying muscle twinges. It is a performance to actually roll over and lie down to look through and enjoy the cowboy patterned cotton . With my bald patch resting on the far pole I absolutely fill the tent. If it rained I would be in trouble as my legs from the knees down straddle the front pole and stick out into the garden. If it rained I would be in trouble anyway.

(previously pitched in mid November 2011 but well worth a run out now that it is better Spring weather- It is one of my favourites)

Drive in the country

I got a call the other day, a last minute panicky call from someone I know reasonably well in the organisation. "Was I able to take on a driving job?".

They apologised about the late notification but they were short, by one, on the full team and needed an experienced and trustworthy person to do the job. I do get asked, perhaps two or at most three times a year to drive. In most activities such infrequency would instill low levels of self confidence, a bit like being ring rusty or even feeling like you have to start all over from scratch in complete disregard of what has gone on before.

I may feel a bit like this at first but with the reassuring thwock sound of a magnetic warning beacon adhereing to the car roof and alongside a large similarly attracted plastic inverted 'V' sign bearing the lettering ' Warning- Cycle Race Approaching' I am completely at ease.

It was not always like that though and my first driving jobs on local races were a steep learning curve. Jostling amongst the vehicles from the Pro Cycling Teams was frightening especially when they would attempt to pass on the narrowest of lanes to reach their riders with very little airspace between paralell aligned doors and wing mirrors. On the largest races there would be upwards of twenty vehicles in the official convoy, all jockeying for a legitimate right to move up and down the line to provide service, nutrition or medical assistance to their team.

There are of course the unpredictable elements at play, mainly the other road users from white van man to myopic gran, caravan family and dawdlers, brawny gals on horses and casual cyclists. The Police attendance is always welcome to induce some common sense and consideration in those caught up on race day but as soon as the patrol cars or motorbikes proceed to the next stage of the rolling road it is a case of a rapid return to illegality and rudeness. The big one day events are otherwise a joy to work on, well organised and with everyone knowing what their roles are and when to perform them.

At the other extreme was the race today, an event over a hilly circuit run by a local club. 60 riders, 5 official vehicles and a lot of dedicated roadside marshals. I was driving the main Commissaire or referee. At the startline she briefed the shivering riders on that early April sunday on the course hazards of potholes, deposits of flint and chalky debris washed out of farm gateways in successive previous days of torrential rain, the narrowness of the lanes and potential for on coming sunday tripper traffic.

I saw the chequered flag drop as I glanced in my rear view mirror. The riders accelerated up to my load bay door, catching me slightly unawares  but I pulled away to keep pace with the leaders ,some 50 feet ahead of them, a gap I would have to maintain as a minimum until the race shook down to a defined order of serious contenders, chancers and those just making up the numbers. For the first undulating lap the full field stayed  together but the main climb was a killer for those mildly unfit or carrying a couple of pounds excess body weight after the winter period. When fragmented I pulled in behind the lead group which had stretched a healthy gap to the rest of the field. Concentration on the road ahead and frequent checks behind for any bridging across became the pattern for the next to and a half hours.

Up the hill the speed was still 15mph plus and on the sweeping descents this topped out at over 50 mph. A vehicle well ahead of the race was to notify other road users of what was approaching and the majority of souls did co-operate and pull over into a passing space or mounted onto the verge but a few did not and made it clear that they had complete justification in carrying on into the path of the oncoming race. We just courteously and gracefully waved.

We were regularly informed of what to expect around every unsighted corner or deep dipping contour  by radio . Evasive action from the idiots of the road was consequently a bit easier. It rained a lot ,sporadically. The visible potholes became submerged in muddy liquid. Large spring water flows and puddles of water stretched across the road sending up a fine aerosol spray as the riders aquaplaned through. The crackling radio maintaining contact between the official cars was just audible above the road noise and the constant motion of the windcreen wipers. The two riders in front of us were timed at a road junction at 1 minute 12 seconds ahead of the chasing bunch. In the course of three more laps of the punishing course and exposure to the elements there remained only 11 riders in contention and they battled it out up that hill again to cross the finishing line marked by a thick painted line across the tarmac and a small group of supporters.

I did not get to find out who won. It was an off white jerseyed rider with an equally grubby and dirt streaked face. The race had been delivered safely and without too much incident and for that I was grateful. As I left the venue in a mud splattered car I was reminded to keep the diary clear for the same time in 2013, expectant of a call to be asked to drive.

Head Hunters

A scratch of the head can be an indication of a great depth of thinking and intelligence.


It can also be every mother's worst nightmare of a case of head lice amongst her siblings.


I remember the look of horror and dismay on my own mothers face when she opened up a letter that I had brought home from school. It was from the nit nurse, or Nitty Nora as she was widely and fearfully known. There were regular health checks at my junior school as in the late 1960's and early 1970's there were still a few nasty and virulent illnesses and bugs lurking about, well out of the then reach of anti-biotics. If measles was found amongst our classmates then, rather than be placed in some sort of quarantine there would be a party to which we would all be invited in order to pre-empt a case of the spots and get it out of the way. Chicken Pox, Scarlet Fever, and Mumps were positively a means of socialising.


Head lice was invariably revealed through the regular screening and when notified the parental machine to eradicate the little critters swung into action.


There was some reassurance in that infestation was only found in clean hair, or so the urban myth was devised to avoid embarrasment to those families who regarded themselves or were seen by others as being of the middle class.The stigma was rife and many a playground gates tittle tattle developed amongst the attendant parents. Where the lice came from was a matter of little speculation and rather direct suspicion. Us children were not party to the socio-economic and certainly political aspects of the infestation.


 It was common for kids heads to touch when sat around a small work table in the classroom, if nylon vests worn for P.E were enthusiastically removed with a rush of static electricity through the hair and acting as a natural self seeding action for the lice eggs or domestic science aprons regularly swopped. The dreaded letter from Nitty Nora was as ominous as the black spot handed to the ill fated buccaneers in Treasure Island.


What was then required was not altogether very pleasant. Treatments to kill head lice were very pungently chemically based. The purchase of such, at Boots The Chemist or other well known pharmacy outlets in itself advertised the fact of an outbreak in a specific household and the rumour mill and gossip hotline relished such information in our small town community.


One infested child meant that the whole of the family had to be doctored and the cost of the medicated shampoo for our large unit was quite a chunk of the family allowance. Bathtime resembled a production line. Hair was wetted, the instructions for the application of the smelly solution strictly followed for maximum effect, heads wrapped for twenty minutes in a towel before careful and thorough rinsing out.


The rigmarole was bad enough for me and my brothers with our short hair but agonisingly demoralising for my two long haired sisters. With dampened hair it was time for the use of the nit comb. This was dragged through , scalp abrading, in short regular movements and then closely examined for any captured lice, hopefully drugged, drowned and deceased or their small hard shelled eggs, an infestation in waiting. Upon discovery of such detritus the comb was dipped into a beaker of water and the whole pattern repeated multiple times per head and per child. We would dare each other to peer into the suspended menagerie as though at the entomology house at the zoo. Once, and once only a solitary insect found its way onto a slide in my junior microscope set .I screamed and I am ashamed to say it sounded like a girls scream when the thing came into sharp focus. 

We did feel quite cleansed and liberated in a sheep-dip type way and our mother, and therefore the atmosphere in the house and the wider town, was significantly calmer...that was until the next time of the handing over of that dreaded official letter. Even now, well into adult life my scalp begins to itch just a little at the very thought of the tiny creatures. If, upon reading this, you too feel an urge to scratch your head then beware you may have some unwelcome visitors and freeloaders.

Ten Foot City

It must be a feature common only to the city of Hull.

I refer to the phenomena of the ten foot roadway or as it is referred to with alternate affection and detestation, just a ten foot.

If I happen to mention it in even casual conversation or in a report or correspondence to an out of towner, usually someone of an expensive legal educated background, then there is always a long pregnant pause before a sheepish voice requests clarification of what it comprises. It is, as they say, what it says on the tin. It is a roadway and it is ten feet wide. I know because I have been sad enought to measure them.

The housing stock in Hull has a very high proportion of terraced properties, long regimented blocks with some consisting of perhaps thirty or more dwellings. This was part of the huge expansion of the suburban areas in the period between the two world wars. It was a time of increasing affluence and living standards.

The suburbs were away from the belching industrial operations and less likely to be shrouded in the usual Hull odours of fish processing, tanneries, cocoa and yeast. Car ownership was increasing and although initial very low levels of private cars kept the streets nicely clear and safe for access and children at play, a perceived and attractive selling point for the speculative builders would be the ability to park a car or van in the back garden. The homes, which had all mod cons such as indoor toilets, electric light and heating still required service access for the coal merchant and tradesmen and a cut through the back garden to the ten foot was always preferred to what could be a very long walk around the block.

Under fairly light use the ten foot could sustain an unmade clay based surface or with the better ones being concreted or tarmac dressed. The aggregated rights of way and use over the ten foot demanded reasonable behaviour to prevent obstruction and inconvenience of passage. As car ownership increased the surfaces inevitably became churned up or damaged. A few good citizens would take on the informal duty of carrying out patching repairs for ruts and potholes. The soot and ash residues from the common use of open fires were ideal for impromptu repair.

The owners of end terraced houses with elevations flush to the ten foots would express understandable concerns over echoing noise and vibration from unsociable use as well as a risk of splashing and spraying of accumulated surface water up their walls. In the larger suburban areas of  West Hull the ten foots became a paradise for thieves, pilferers and opportunists, a veritable network of escape routes along which to transport ill gotten goods from garden grown soft fruits to the whole contents of a shed..

Parking spaces soon saw the proliferation in numbers of garages and in particular the cheaper timber and asbestos structures. This was in the prime era of that wonder cement bonded material and well before the expressing of concerns on health grounds. Soon the ten foots appeared scruffy and home to every form of construction and style of garages, sheds, aviaries, pigeon lofts, summerhouses and play houses.

By the 1970's cars were rarely driven to be parked at the rear of the houses and many ten foots fell into a deteriorated state. After heavy or persistent rain there were always large pools and ponds to be negotiated by brave souls. I am not aware of any cases of persons  being found face down in such a potentially watery grave. Neighbourhood awareness has led in recent years to the postioning of lockable gates at the entrances to the ten foots and this has had a remarkable deterrent effect on crime levels but quite a bonanza for locksmiths in the provision of multiple keys for all those entitled to use the road.

A high proportion of Hull's resident population has therefore grown up with the ten foot. Many scarred knees will have been caused by a rift valley of concrete road sections or loose based gravels and tarmac, as many birthday bicycles left with mangled wheels or frames from frequent jumps and wheelies, a few babies thrown out of prams and buggies by uneven ground and  some of these infants actually conceived in the darker shadowy parts of the shanty town of structures.

The ten foot does have some competition on a national basis from the likes of ginnels, snickets, a cut, alley ways, passages and lanes but is intrinsically part of the Hull culture and language and will survive long in the pages of urban folklore of which there is a great richness from that north east City.

Madness in the Methodist

It has been an extraordinary day, made more amazing because it started off just like a normal thursday in a working week.

Usual early start, not as bright actually, mentally or physically because it was pouring down with rain outside again and I had to put on the energy saving bulbed light which took an age to reach anywhere near the equivalent artificial light of its purported 60 watt equivalent. Mundane stuff took place. A bit of paperwork left over from the previous day, catch up on e-mails, buy some Land Registry Title Plans when the e-business portal opens at 7am, say good morning to The Boy as he heads for the first of his many forays into the kitchen in search of chocolate, crisps and coffee.

A first glance at the clock shows that I have been up and active for a staggering time of two and a half hours but it seems more like ten minutes. It is the time to think about getting ready to go to work. I have to be out at the coast by 10am, about 35 miles but across the City and bound to catch the tail end of the rush hour tailbacks so must leave about an hour for the journey.

Within a few minutes I am on the road. There is an episode of Dad's Army on the radio from the 70's - the one where Captain Mainwaring and Corporal Jones are left holding a stray barrage balloon and get whisked away at peril from the alerted RAF, Private Pike with a rifle and a train. Yet another portion of time flies by and the 30 minute broadcast sees me on automatic pilot through the busiest part of the route.

To the east of the City Centre it is just me and a lot of articulated lorries and shipping containers on the road, past the green copper roof of the Prison. The HGV's indicate to move across into the outside lane, those with EU plates and from all parts from Scandinavia to the Adriatic a bit more hesitantly before I lose them to the approach road into the docks. The cruise control is activated at 40mph because today may be the day of the first Police Speed Trap ever on the dual carriageway. The flarestacks, cooling towers and superstructures of the Saltend Chemical complex loom out of the low cloud of the morning and I again remark to myself that if there was ever a double required for the skyline of New York.........................

I am now into open countryside, just a few commuter villages to pass through with those who have overslept left standing expectantly at the bus stops. The open Holderness area is flat and open but nevertheless striking and interesting. For the first time in forty minutes I attain  a speed in excess of 40mph but I am not in a hurry. The drive out to Withernsea has been a regular part of my working week, once or twice a week and I have over 25 plus years got the timing down to an exact science, that is farm traffic, caravans and plodding daytrippers permitting.

At Patrington the sky has brightened a bit more but still no blue glimpses through the grey cloud. The St Patricks Church tower resembles Thunderbird 3 with its sharp pointed nose and elegant buttresses. Out of the village the road is more undulating but traffic remains very sparse and I max out at 60 mph before yet more speed restrictions and warning notices of cameras. On the northern skyline stands Withernsea lighthouse, unusually just inland from the town centre but very much a landmark.

 I have some sympathy for Withernsea. Two individuals in history exacted a great combined disservice to the town. The first was the anonymous Captain of a ship called the Henry Parr who in 1903 ran into what remained of the Pier and destroyed it beyond economic salvage. He was not the first to attack what was a major example of late Victorian seafront architecture which at its most glorious stuck out some 1200 feet into the North Sea and completed in 1877 for a cost to the proud townsfolk of £12,000. The Saffron started the diminution programme only three years after the opening of the Pier- a lesson to all navigators to update your maps and charts on a regular basis, followed by a hit and run and then, insult added to injury, a collision by an unnamed but Grimsby originating boat. Was this a deliberate attempt to perpetuate the attraction of the nearest competing pier at Cleethorpes? The most significant knee in the groin however came from the closure of the Hull and Holderness railway line in 1964. This strangled the steady flow of trippers from Hull and beyond who could experience a cheap day out and which in the Victorian period had contributed much wealth and status to the economy of the town. Had the rail lifeline been retained then Withernsea would certainly have developed massively as a commuter town and seasonal destination on a par with, say Bridlington. The main through street of the town was looking a bit depressed but no more so than many former thriving urban centres. I did not help the situation by opting for the convenience of a Tesco Meal Deal.

I was feeling a bit jaded after my early start but still had a big inspection to do on a Methodist Chapel farther down the coast. I took slower, more picturesque back roads, two longer sides of a triangulation to Easington village. The roads are single track with signed passing bays, a bit like Highland Scotland. Large puddles of water gave some interest to the route although the thrill of raising a huge plume of mud in suspension ran the risk of the pool of water concealing a huge pothole or tyre shredding debris.

Easington, approached from the north, is not pretty. A clump of slow moving wind turbines give way to the military stronghold of the Gas Terminal which is guarded and patrolled to clearly illustrate its strategic importance to the UK supplies of natural gas. The village itself has in its unspoiled heart some of my favourite buildings. A thatched medieval long barn, a residence with a flag flying tower, sea cobble cottages and the latest addition ,my destination, of the Chapel.

I called at the house of one of the  Stewards, a lady whom had never met me before but trustingly handed over a long and intricate mortice key. I apologise at this point to a Mrs Clubley whose hand I enthusiastically shook before she told me I needed to be at the house next door. The Chapel, a squat red brick late Victorian building stood next to the Tower House, in fact attached to its western gable. I pushed the well worn shaft of the key into the heavy panelled external door. The porch floor was strewn with confetti and I was pleased to see that it was still in use in spite of the aged, increasingly infirm but still dedicated members

Inside, a surprisingly cavernous worship hall with pitch pine pews gently inclined away from the carved pulpit. A pine screen led to a smaller vestry and meeting room but cold and damp with flaking paintwork on the efflorescent plasterwork of the walls. My attention was drawn to a dazzlingly polished brass plate in thanks and commemoration of the donation of the first electric lighting in 1931.

Although an old building it had been lovingly maintained and I found that I had completed my inspection in good time. I was conscious of not appearing to be disrespective to the Chapel members by sending in a reasonable but quite fund diminishing invoice and so delayed my return of the keys to Mrs Clubleys neighbour.

I am prone to humming and whilst in such a mode I became aware of the fantastic acoustics of the worship hall. I was alone, there were no neighbours within earshot, I was inspired by my surroundings. From a plastic bag on a pew I extracted a book of hymns and worked methodically through. My C of E upbringing had given me a good grounding in the better known hymns and songs of praise and I am not ashamed to say that I really went for it. Hesitant at first I was soon belting out, in good style, my favourites and the stalwarts of a good sing song.

From time to time there was the sound from a passing car but otherwise it was just me and my maker. It was an extrordinary day.

Bridlington, sometime 1950's.

It is a black and white photograph.

Not sure of the actual date but probably 1950's. There is a large crowd milling about on a very, evidently, hot and sunny day although it could have been any time between Easter and Midsummers. The venue for the congregated numbers is a kiosk selling cups of tea, slices of cake, biscuits ,fancy pastries and platters of egg and cress, ham and egg and corned beef sandwiches with crusts already beginning to wilt in the shaded but still oppressive temperatures .

Kiosk may be a rather flattering description for what is a tent like structure, temporary for the day or a short holiday season. The canvas roof, four sided rises to a pinnacle and underneath are three serving counters made from trestle tables. The rear vertical of the enclosure is a full cloth wall against which are placed the very large capacity tea urn, a separate water boiler, stacks of white plates sorted on the basis of size from saucer to tea plate to large dinner plate and some shop sourced glass display cabinets containing the goods for sale in a magnifying and enticing effect.

Below the servery positions are the skirts of the glorified ex army surplus encampment, creased and streaked with spillings from enthusiastically filled and received best china tea cups. The canteen is staffed by three apron clad ladies, stout and matronly but skilled in catering for the masses. A chalk board, string tied to one of the corner upright poles has a succint choice to match the displayed fare. TEA-CAKE-BISCS-S'WCHES. The tariff may be slightly higher than that in the main parade of shops, just a mere stiff walk away, but the prime location and convenience justify a little bit of profiteering after the austere wartime and post war years. After all, Rationing is still is place for the more scarce staples and goods.

A queue snakes away from the refreshmnent encampment. There may be three serving points but it is a British crowd and there is an unwritten etiquette in the art of patient waiting and of which there is understandable pride. On a closer study of the old photograph a few things, to modern eyes, appear very strange.

The women are dressed in formal clothes. There is no doubting that it is a hot day and compacted shadows indicate it to be about midday but the standard attire comprises thick frock dress, stockings, heavy leather shoes more functional than fashionable, perhaps a cardigan and for the senior ladies even an old, straggly and past its best fox fur draped over the very white flesh of the neck as the only natural skin visible. Those bare headed have tightly pinned hair in a bun or high up on the crown. Headscarves hide the regimented ridges of hair rollers. Large floppy hats adorn a few in protection against the sun as if any trace of a sun tan is both unladylike and coarse.

The men are fully suited and booted. The uniform tincture of the print does belie some variation in the colours of the formal wear even if it is just many shades of black or dark grey. These are evidently demob suits. Hands are thrust into deep fabric pockets either scouring for change for the tea break or searching out the means to roll up a cigarette. All of the men, bar none have hats, stylish gangster type hats with a wide brim and silk band. They stoop and keep their heads down as if being watched in their endeavours by the missus or, more likely on a day out, her mother as well.

The queue shuffles along slowly. Remarkably there is no litter in sight. This is not what we would regard as fast food today but a civilised dining experience on the finest flatware. At the end of the day it is accepted that none of the utensils or china will be unaccounted for and any accidental breakages will have gracefully been paid up in full. Most unusually is the fact that there are no children or young adults at all in the picture. The fashions of the time, however, make it vey difficult to actually put an age or accurate social demographic on those present. Looking back to my memories of, in particular my Grandparents they always dressed as old people, very formal, and not really very different from the styles of the 1930's even though they were of no advanced age. I often wonder if there was a single date in the calendar, sometime, but not too far in the future from that photograph  when the men suddenly and unanimously decided against wearing a hat and the ladies tore up their bloomer undergarments but kept them under the kitchen sink as best quality dusters and dish-cloths.

I visually zoom out of the photograph. In the far background is a bit of a heat haze but very distinctly the edge of a stretch of shallow and rippling water. The line of customers have left a shuffling trail in soft sand. In the foreground are a few stripey low slung chairs.

This is a day at the seaside, on the beach, post war style, England.

King of the Castle

I say that scaring your children on a fairly regular basis is character forming.

I do not mean meat cleaver through the door and a screwed up face amongst the splintered woodwork saying 'Daddy's Home', or anything that could actually place them in harms way but a periodic frightening to emphasise a point or ideally with some educational value.

That was my thinking behind the elaborate and actually quite spooky exercise that I thought would be both interesting and stimulating to my three young children during an autumnal week away in Northumberland.

The village scene of Bamburgh, in particular the stone built houses and a red phone box are regularly featured as the theme for jigsaw puzzles and 'guess where?'quizzes. The typical range of merchandise and souvenirs from the gifte shoppes ,either toffee, fudge, boiled sweets or just tea towels and framed art prints bear the same images. Within perhaps half a mile there is however an unprecedented choice of heritage and historic associations that could easily fill a wholesalers warehouse on a Newcastle Trading Estate with bric a brac and something to proudly place on a display shelf or eventually relegate to the back of a kitchen drawer.

Just up the road lived Grace Darling who, with her father, crewed and rowed out one stomy night to rescue desperate souls whose ship was foundering on the treacherous rocky outcrops of the Farne islands. However, the most dominant and magnificent landmark between the village and the sea is Bamburgh Castle.

In technical and architectural terminology it is massive. The silhouette is easily recognised from some bit-parts and atmospheric scenes in high budget movies, I seem to remember it behind Costner and Freeman in Robin Hood Prince of Thieves (note to self- better check this), and also as a backdrop for various pop videos most notably one with a windswept Brian Ferry. The Castle rivals the best in England in terms of size and historic significance being located very much on the front line against attack and invasion from the north and the sea. First mention in archives of a fortification on the volcanic mound are from 547 AD and the list of occupiers, usurpers, besiegers and chancers includes early Britons, Anglo Saxons, Vikings, Normans, Tudors and a few noblemen, marauding Scots, powerful clergy and for much of the last century rebuilt and made commercially viable with the industrial based fortunes originating from a family dynasty in the Victorian period.

Our weeks stay was in an old coach house, set back behind the biscuit tin photo-montage of the through road, just past the chocolatiers, gourmet sausage makers and copper kettle signed tea shop. A low squat building in warm local stone which provided plenty of space for 2 grown ups and three active children. The east facing frontage and the bedrooms in which the children were to sleep looked directly towards and with uninterrupted views of the Castle. In the gloomy dusk light, about 4.30pm in autumn, the floodlights on the sidelines of the football pitch at the only level part of the village below the sheer outcrop were fired into action. Although some half a mile from our accommodation the white misty light was all intruding and cast shadows deep into our holidy house.

My conspiracy, innocently devised for entertainment and educational content for the children,had been planned some weeks before whilst I was sat in my office at work.

I am fascinated by things historical but my family, generally are less so. My constant regurgitation of facts, mostly true but with a scattering of urban myths, at every opportunity of a trip or day out may have resulted in their frequent glazed. "give it a rest Dad" expressions.

Over the time before the vacation I fabricated on the oldest office paper stocks a series of letters which would purport to have been written by three ghostly children who resided in some limbo-type existence up the Castle. These referred to my own children and  in real-time the correspondence mentioned their clothes, mannerisms and day to day activities as though being closely watched from one of the barred and arrow slit apertures in the west wall of the castle.

For the sake of authenticity I pre-soaked the paper in a weak solution of office tea and when dry, warped and a bit brittle carefully invented characters, emotions and aspirations for the three incumbents and wrote such in my best ink fountain pen with further smudges to add flavour.

Of course,there was no logic, sense or actual possibility in what I was fabricating but to me it seemed a bit of harmless, and yes, education based fun. My office were instructed to post out one of the sequenced letters every day for the week. The Hull postmark would not be noticed if I intercepted the mail on the doormat before taking it to my children.

The ruse was very effective, not so much in its learning value but ensuring that my children were, for much of the stay, petrified of showing themselves in the windows at the front of the house or indeed anywhere in the village which could be overlooked by the fictionalised, and frightening vapour based castle occupants.

It took some explaining and incentivised reassurance to retrieve the situation and the confidence of  the children, suffice to say that the trading figures for the village gift shops all showed a very unseasonal profit for that autumn week.

The epic dream of Issigonis

I was not there when it was time to say goodbye.

It may have been a bit too much for me emotionally because I had known him all my life.

I did spend some of the morning of the day of his departure fussing around to make sure he looked presentable. There was quite a lot to do but then there always is when it comes to selling off a member of the family.

The sun streamed in that particular day when I opened up the double doors. I found it difficult to adjust to the contrast in the light as I shuffled alongside to remove his polythene cover. A film of fine silty dust transferred from the lightweight shroud and into the chill, stale air, only visible when blowing through the shafts of light.

He was already six when I was born but I always regarded him as being so much older and not just that but old fashioned as well. He was a very distinguished character, quite dapper and much admired on the days when he was running well enough to be seen out and about.

For the last 20 years he had been convalescing . A bit deflated and sorry looking but breeding and pedigree can permeate through any superficial state or appearance. A few people had come to see him, perhaps with some intentions to take him away and give him a new lease of life but they were not acceptable to us in their attitude and in their low opinion of his worth.

The intrusions were sometimes quite upsetting as there was a lot of poking and probing, body parts lifted up and closely examined under bright work lights. The laying on of hands by skilled practitioners was often followed by a sharp intake of breathe and some tut, tuts and not a little blasphemous profanity.

One prospective party insisted on using his toe end to elicit a swift kick to the nether parts. I felt like returning the compliment but resisted out of respect and deference for my companion of nearly 50 years.

In my childhood he was ever present on a daily basis. The whole family would go out for the day and we would be safe and secure in his company. Our schoolfriends loved him as well and on birthdays there would be crowding around to enjoy a picnic and a good sing song on the way home. He was to one and all a creche, nursery and playground. Inevitably we, as a growing family, drifted away but he tagged along every time we were relocated to somewhere and was always given a shelter and indeed pride of place at the new house.

He was slowing down noticeably when I was a teenager but was still able to teach me how to drive and I have not forgotten that time and the feeling of a new experience and mobile freedom. I think that was about the last time he got out into the open and he was truly and gracefully retired. 

There was without doubt a genuine intention for a full therapeutic makeover but pressing and priority issues arose to diminish the available budget. My Father did pass on many worthy attributes to me but unfortunately being practical as far as car maintenance was concerned was not one of them. I would not be a good custodian.

So, it is the end of the very long era of our association with our very good friend and beloved family member,  the Morris Minor.

He was loaded onto a trailer on newly inflated tyres and looked suitably magnificent. I like to imagine that he was understandably excited about the next stage in his illustrious life in another adoring and caring family.

There is a very good prognosis for a full recovery. May he rest in pieces......for a short while anyway.

Titanic Proportions

The Centenary of the maritime tragedy that was the sinking of the Titanic has raised as much interest, debate and the presentation of new disclosures as ever before.

The story could not have been fabricated or fictionalised beyond what has been written, dramatised and physically salvaged since that April night in 1912.

Apart from the well documented post-tragedy enquiry, the implications for those who survived and the dependants of those that perished the whole event has assumed legendary status, embellished every so often with speculative controversy and conspiracy. Whether in 2D or 3D the imagery of that horrendous night has been reinforced in the minds and consciousness of those who have fallen for the big screen image and representation of what was, after all, an extreme example of human folly and social division.

It is difficult now to appreciate the effect that the breaking news of the sinking will have had on the world at that time. We are so used to a 24/7 instant news coverage with personal camera-phone footage and 'as it happens' reporting that first knowledge of the tragic circumstances in 1912 delivered by a news stand hoarding, the shouted headlines by a news vendor and subsequent word of mouth will have been met with sheer disbelief.

The period at the time was one of significant progress in science, engineering, medecine and economics. Population was on the move from the Old Europe to the New Americas and the Titanic was seen by the aspirational classes as a clear sign that anything was now possible to those with commitment and enthusiasm. The fact that the ship was arranged in the old social order from luxurious First Class to lower deck steerage was not an issue for those on board but has subsequently been the subject of much analysis and exploitation for political and socio-economic points of view from every angle.

The sinking, specifically the short period from the breach of the hull to the eerie silence of an empty ocean surface has often been referred to as a glowing example of the steadfastness and 'don't panic' attitude of the British people. This is as far from reality as possible given that the souls on board, either as part of the crew or compliment of passengers were from many national and cultural backgrounds.

The stories of personal sacrifice in the evacuation of the ship have been long regarded  as inspirational but tempered by the few high profile individuals whose self-survival cowardice showed a deperate disregard and a lack of sense of duty to the more vulnerable on board.

Captain Smith has attained mythical status in his resolute dedication to remaining on board whilst giving permission to the crew to take their own chances when it was clear that there was little prospect of helping others. The representation of the band still playing hymns on the increasingly steepening deck  is also firmly rooted in our minds as a particularly poignant image.

The modern interpretation of what took place has been to attribute the behaviour of those resigned to stay on board to the consequences of shock and traumatic stress disorder. It has been speculated that the relaxed approach to the situation borne out of disbelief over what was taking place belied the actual dire circumstances of the moment. The junior crew members regarded the evacuation process of  the ship as a chance to walk about on  deck and smoke without running the possibility of severe sanction from senior officers.

There have been many post mortems and periodic reviews of the evidence from the tragedy and no more so than on the run-up to the centenary. The testimonies of individuals have been very touching. The Titanic was a few days into its maiden voyage and correspondence to family and friends reaching home recounted the on board luxury and activities. A crew member from the engine room wrote to his mother about the sheer scale of the ship and that it would not be long before the return journey was completed and he would be home. A Steward with wife and a large number of dependants expressed some regret at being away from them all but marvelled at the sights and sounds of the ship. The writers did not survive. It is an overlooked fact that approaching half of the fatalities were members of the crew.

First hand accounts from survivors are well documented but very matter of fact in their content. The Fourth Officer, Joseph Boxall, from Hull was called to stand before the US Senate Enquiry in a wide ranging investigation in the days immediately following the sinking. He was approaching the bridge when he heard news of the iceberg being struck but had not thought the impact was significant. When the lower holds began to fill and a threat of sinking became a realisation it was his responsibility to report the position by wireless to alert vessels in the vicinity. For the first time in maritime history the abbreviated distress signal SOS was sent in morse code. The Captain instructed him to man the last but one lifeboat to be lowered. The other rowing boats stood off at a safe distance. US Senator Smith, presiding, queried that there must have been hundreds of bodies in what was a calm sea condition.  Joseph Boxall reported that there were no survivors in the water to be picked up and he personally only saw one dead body after the disappearance of the ship.

It is right and proper to commemorate loss of life but in an appropriately solemn manner. The Titanic legend remains strong and indeed very commercially viable from the newly developed Shipyard Visitor Centre in Belfast to the vast array of memorabilia and merchandise in circulation. Perhaps the Centenary represents the ideal time to gracefully put away the souvenir tea towels and date embossed brass ships bells before we become too insensitive and the imagery becomes larger than the actual loss of life.